


Love & Violence

by SallyLovette



Category: Lackadaisy (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-06 17:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15890886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SallyLovette/pseuds/SallyLovette
Summary: Take someone who can’t say no (Calvin) and someone who can’t take no for an answer (Rocky), put them together, and what do you get?—asked no one, ever.





	1. Chocolate Milk

Calvin drinks his milk with chocolate. Rocky drinks his with maple syrup. Sometimes, if they’re alone, they race to see who can down it the fastest. Usually, like now, Rocky wins. “Better luck next time,” he says, with a smile and a wink. Calvin turns red and chokes, and Rocky asks, “what’s the matter? Did it go down the wrong pipe?” and pounds him on the back. 

“Yeah,” Calvin coughs, wiping his mouth and avoiding eye contact. “A little.” 

 

*

 

Rocky gets kidnapped by this guy Calvin hates. He has slicked-back red hair and this blonde, buzzcut bodyguard it took him forever to figure out was actually female. He figured it out when she pinned him down (with a rapier, of all things) and kissed him. Within that split second, he’d felt every inch of her, whether he liked it or not; then she’d whispered something dirty in his ear that made him shiver, blushing to the tips of his ears. Rocky saved him by pouring boiling tea down her collar. She’d almost made Calvin go deaf with how loudly she’d screamed, right in his ear. 

Later, Rocky helped Calvin wrap bandages around his shoulder, carefully, albeit inexpertly, stitched with a sewing needle taken from his mother’s things and sterilized with alcohol. “You’re not gonna be using that arm for a while.” 

“Thanks for saving me.” 

“Don’t get sentimental.” Rocky had seized his chin and kissed his cheek with a big, exaggerated smooching sound. “You little rascal.” Calvin had flinched so hard Rocky ended up with a bloody nose. 

“I’m sorry,” he’d repeated over and over, eyes wide. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Rocky’s voice had been muffled as he held his face. “You’re just jumpy from the fight. Have a lie-down, go on, now. I’m fine.” 

But they kidnap Rocky, and, a day or two later, try to get their hands on Calvin, too. Long after the fact, Calvin would realize they were trying to negotiate, but at the time, it’s one of those things where he really can’t control himself, so it dawns on him too late— breathing hard, gun in hand— that now he has no cards left to play. He thinks, applesauce, then, for lack of a better idea, goes to Viktor (Viktor, who hates him and his cousin equally, but can’t afford to not help them if he wants Lackadaisy to survive as a business), and asks him where Marigold is keeping their prisoner.

“How vould I know such thing?”

“Just ask Mordecai.” Viktor’s piercing glare makes it suddenly very obvious to him, perhaps even painfully so, that he should have brought Ivy along, but he hadn’t thought of it. “Please,” he begs. Viktor sighs, then picks up the phone.

 

*

 

Never bring a sword to a gun fight: Calvin honestly feels as if that’s solid advice. He rescues his cousin and brings him home safely, and it’s just gravy knowing that damn redhead and his lady accomplice will never be a thorn in his side again. But he has to focus; his cousin is injured. “Come on. I’m taking you back to my place.” 

“You’re out of your damned mind.” 

“My mom’s out of town.” 

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you say so?”

They go there. The injury isn’t too bad—  just a deep cut on the palm of his left hand. “Well, shit,” he says as Calvin winds him in bandages. “Looks like the band is short a violin player.” 

“How will they manage?” 

Rocky is surprised by Calvin’s fast retort. “Someone’s awful spirited tonight.” 

“Sorry,” Calvin murmurs, blushing. “Adrenaline, I suppose.” 

“Hey, don’t sweat it. My heart’s beating like a sledgehammer.” When Calvin doesn’t respond, they fall awkwardly silent. When he finishes with his hand, much to Rocky’s confusion, he doesn’t let go. For a moment he’s worried Calvin is experiencing a relapse of guilt, the sort he used to get back when they first started. “Earth to Freckle.” He touches his chin, tilting his head up so that their eyes meet. “Are you okay?” 

Calvin stares at him. Rocky stares back. Suddenly, he slides his hand free and shifts away, putting space between them. “Hey,” he begins slowly, cautiously. “I don’t suppose you remember that time, back in April, when we, um...?” Calvin nods so minutely the movement is almost imperceptible. “That was a one time thing, you understand.” Calvin nods again. “...Okay. Good.” Without warning, Calvin steps forward, leans up and kisses him. Rocky twitches away. Calvin reaches for his collar, pulls him in, and kisses him again. When this doesn’t stop him from resisting, Calvin backs him ( _thud_ ) into the wall, holding tight with both hands. Rocky is rigid and unyielding at first, but after a minute or two he relaxes, and, after a while, he surrenders completely, cradling Calvin’s face in his hands and kissing him back.

Somehow or other, they wind up on the bed. Calvin’s shoulder is still healing. Rocky asks him if it hurts. “Just a little.” 

“Maybe we shouldn’t—”

Before he can finish his sentence, Calvin shuts him up with a kiss. He feels Rocky’s hands graze the back of his neck, savors the warmth and softness of his tongue. He’s been dreaming of this for a while, ever since the first time, when he hadn’t known what to think. In fact, he still doesn’t. But he knows how it feels, which is nice. “I trust you,” he murmurs. Rocky squirms uncomfortably underneath him. Calvin shuts him up again. His hand finds its way to the front of Rocky’s pants, and finally he gets what he’s so long been after. And Rocky seems to like it, at least a little, judging by the way he moans.

 

*

 

Calvin drinks his milk with chocolate. When Rocky finally wakes up and shuffles, yawning, into the kitchen, Calvin is sure not to let him anywhere near the stove, lest he burn the place to the ground. He serves him pancakes with butter and syrup and instructs him to eat with one hand while he changes his bandages. “Can’t you just wait til I’m done?” Calvin had responded with a headshake and no further explanation, but the truth was, he just wanted an excuse to hold Rocky’s hand again. When Rocky’s finished eating, he gives him a tender love bite on the neck, but, just like before, Rocky twitches away, to Calvin’s mild irritation. “This isn’t going to be a thing, Freckle. I mean it.” Freckle nods, but disregards him. He may not be terribly experienced, but he knows true love when he’s faced with it.

He kisses Rocky’s cheek, gets a light smack for his trouble, and then the two of them change into their work clothes and head out into the evening. 


	2. Preferences

Calvin doesn’t like dancing. He can’t wrap his head around what he’s supposed to do, let alone enjoy it, but his girlfriend, Ivy, is a floor-flusher, so, purely in the interest of making her happy, he’d agreed to let Rocky teach him.

Mozzie cued up something tuneful as they stepped out onto the floor. Calvin turned consistently redder with each passing moment, keeping his eyes glued to Rocky’s chest, but Rocky, on the other hand, was entirely comfortable. “I don’t usually do this” was the only thing that may have suggested otherwise (if only it wasn’t for that incorrigible smile of his); “I’m onstage. But you can see the dance floor from there.” He twirled Calvin spontaneously, then pulled him in close, explaining that this was how girls liked to be held. Calvin nodded to show he was listening. When the song ended and they broke apart, he asked Rocky, quite unexpectedly, why he didn’t have a girlfriend. “I don’t know,” he answered, as if he’d never really thought about it. “I’m not anyone’s type, I suppose.”

Calvin nodded to show he understood. When  Rocky went back to playing the violin, Calvin went back to dancing with Ivy. “Are you gay?” she asked him. He looked at her as if she was crazy, but she didn’t rescind the question; it had been on her mind for a while. “I saw you dancing with your cousin.” He looked away, and she pressed him gently. “It’s okay if you are.” 

“I’m not.” 

“D’you remember that boy from the cafe last week? The one that asked you out on a date?” 

Calvin recalled the incident. He hadn’t realized she’d been watching. “I told him no.”

“But you didn’t think he was cute?” 

“I’m not gay.” 

After a moment or two of silence, Ivy sighed, giving up. “Fine. Whatever.” The song ended, and she took his hand and pulled him toward the bar. “I need a drink.” He didn’t protest. She wound up plastered, just like she did every night, and he drove her home, just like he did every night. Then, motivated purely by impulse, he went back to the speakeasy. Viktor had already left the bar and gone who-knows-where (Calvin had his suspicions, but then, so did everyone). Half the band was passed out on the stage, and the rest were either drinking or smoking. Rocky was talking Zib’s ear off. Zib immediately took the chance to dump him on Calvin. “Why don’t you two mugs head on out of here? It’s late.” 

They made their way toward the back exit.

“How did it go with Miss Pepper?” 

“Fine.”

Rocky studied him, grinning lopsidedly, and Calvin could tell he was seeing straight through him, just as if he was made of glass. “I watched you two leave,” he declared, “Bent as a horseshoe for the tenth night in a row. Bank was closed, huh?” Calvin didn’t know how to respond. “Hey,” Rocky said suddenly. “Can I show you something?” 

They went to the garage. Rocky got into the car, and Calvin, after a moment of hesitation, followed him. “What is it?” 

“What’s what?” 

“The thing you wanted to show me.” 

Rocky said he couldn’t remember. He stared out of the windshield with one hand on the wheel, quiet, which wasn’t like him. In the darkness, Calvin couldn’t see much, only his outline, the curve of his neck, the notch in his ear, the way his body reclined, like in one of those oil paintings. There was no way (in the darkness) he should have been able to know Calvin was staring, let alone read his thoughts, but he said, “paint a picture. It’ll last longer” and Calvin turned the bright hue of a cherry and lowered his eyes down to his lap. To his surprise, Rocky laughed, reached across, and ruffled his hair, pushing his hat down over his eyes. “Kidding. Kidding.” 

Silence fell. Calvin didn’t move a muscle, didn’t dare look up. “You’re an oddball, McMurray, but you’re cute, I’ll give you that. You always had that going for you.” Calvin squeezed his eyes shut, his heart racing like a locomotive; if his life depended on it, he couldn’t have thought up a single thing to say. Fortunately, he didn’t have to. “I remember when you were a kitten. You always had the prettiest eyes. After all this time, I think that’s the one thing that never changed.” Rocky leaned in. “Let’s see them. Come on,” he coaxed when Calvin shook his head once, jerkingly, terrified. “It’s okay. Look at me.”

Finally, Calvin did, and Rocky kissed him. It was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

 

*

 

Calvin blinks and refocuses. Zib is waiting for him. He asks if he has any threes and Zib says “go fish” and then, under his breath, “I cannot believe I’m playing this stupid kiddie game with a grown man.” Calvin picks a card from the pile as Zib unscrews his flask, takes a swig, then offers it to him, but it doesn’t come as a terrible surprise when he refuses. “You’re really something, you know that? And I used to think your sap of a cousin was strange. What are you doing here, kid, really?” Calvin shrugs. 

“I needed a job.” 

As Zib chuckles without humor, Calvin flicks his eyes up. Rocky is pestering Viktor at the bar, picking his brain for advice, either bravely or foolishly ignoring the look on his face that tells him one more word and he’ll kill him. “Is Viktor gay?” 

“Viktor likes women.” Zib shifts his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “...Purportedly. You know the rumors.” 

“Yeah.” Calvin stares for another minute, but when Viktor catches his eye, he quickly lowers his gaze, pretending to be absorbed in his cards. His heart hammers until he’s sure he isn’t looking at him anymore. 

“Got any kings?” Zib asks. Calvin looks at him, at his disheveled clothing and lidded eyes, at the mouth that’s been rumored to have worn lipstick on more than one occasion that didn’t call for it, and a thought occurs to him.

“What about you?” 

“What about me?” Zib raises an eyebrow. Calvin doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. Zib sighs, putting his cards down, and rubs his face with both hands. “You going through a tough time, kiddo? I’d say maybe your cousin needs to give you a talk, but...” He trails off, and he and Calvin turn their heads simultaneously, watching Viktor seize Rocky by the collar, fist raised. “Well,” Zib finishes. “Let’s face it— he’s an idiot.” 

“It’s okay.” 

Zib chews his toothpick, thinking as best as he can with a head soaked in alcohol and hazy with drugs. “Listen,” he says finally. “Love is a beautiful thing. It doesn’t matter if you prefer boys or girls. All that matters is that you stay true to yourself. Of course, nowadays, real love is hard to come by. I’d stick to bootlegging if I were you.” 

When Rocky joins them, he’s holding a glass of ice to his bruised cheekbone. “Vinegar’s in a mood.” 

“He’s in a mood cause you won’t lay off,” Zib says. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? You do realize he used to make his living in murder?” 

“Aww, he wouldn’t hurt me,” Rocky says dissmissively, as if that isn’t exactly what just happened. “I’m his beloved protégé.” He sits next to Calvin, who very carefully doesn’t look at him. Zib watches the two for a moment. Then he gets up. “I need another shot.” 

They’re left alone. Rocky doesn’t look at him, either. It’s funny. He’s usually so self-assured, or at least, apt at faking it, but he’s been acting differently ever since last night, like this is a problem he might just be out of his depth in trying to solve. But Calvin doesn’t need him to solve it. For the time being, he just needs him to play along.

 

*

 

Rocky put on the radio, shimmied out of his jacket, and shifted himself into a better position. Calvin was reluctant at first, pushing his head to try and get rid of him, but his feeble protests were mixed in with moans of pleasure as Rocky sucked him off until he came. When he was done, he wiped his mouth and grinned, said something Calvin didn’t catch, in his confusion, in his ecstasy; he trembled during the afterglow, which Rocky seemed to enjoy far more than he did, somehow, that inane cousin of his.

Remembering it now, Calvin isn’t filled with half as much heartache as he would have been remembering it, say, a week ago. It’s because of the way Rocky had acted— not that night, while they made out in that funny old flivver, or even after, when they’d parted ways under the streetlight in front of the cafe, but later— in the following weeks, when he never talked about it, as if it never happened, as if it meant nothing, as if he’d forgotten, but Calvin couldn’t forget. He stayed up at night, asked himself questions, thought back on sensations, recalled every detail until he shivered, claws digging into his sides, hugging himself, curled up at the edge of the bed, so close to falling it was a surprise when he never did— at least, not physically. Not literally. 

“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” he had asked his cousin, oh, so long ago.

“I don’t know. I’m not anyone’s type, I suppose.” A pause, a heartbeat in length. “Why?” But he’d received no answer.


	3. Kitten Eyes

Rocky damn near jumps out of his skin as, halfway to Defiance, Calvin gets out of his seat, leans over, and kisses him. “Freckle, I’m trying to see the road.” Calvin doesn’t listen; he presses his mouth against Rocky’s neck and bites. Rocky slams the breaks, nearly throwing them into the windshield. Calvin sits back, his heart hammering, as Rocky stares straight ahead, his blue eyes wide. “Don’t do that,” he says after a while.

They continue on their way, but it isn’t long before Rocky ends up having to slam the breaks again. Apparently, “never learning a goddamned thing” is a family trait.

 

*

 

After that night’s pick-up is taken care of, the truck emptied and the bar stocked, Calvin follows Rocky like a diminutive shadow to the stage. Rocky tries to shake him off. “Take a hike.” 

“I want to stay with you.” 

“Sorry, cuzzo. Not while I’m working.”

Calvin shows him big, sad kitten eyes, and it pains Rocky not just to look at them, but to know he isn’t even really doing it on purpose. He sighs. “Look, the stage is for musicians only. Why don’t you work on catching up to everyone else?”  

“I don’t like whiskey.” 

“Then ask Viktor for a soda.” 

“I don’t like Viktor.” 

“No?” Amused, Rocky sits down on the edge of the stage and pops open his violin case. “Go talk to Miss Pepper, then. Ask her to dance. You learned enough from me by now, haven’t you? Go on, go.” He gives his cousin a mild shove. “I’m busy.” 

To his annoyance, Calvin lingers. “I don’t want to dance.” He hesitates, eyes stuck to his fidgeting hands. “And Ivy doesn’t like me.” 

“Sure, she does.”  

“She broke up with me.”

A pause as Rocky digests this news. His heart twinges with guilt, and, finally, he takes pity on him. “Here. Rosin the bow while I tune.” Calvin does so happily, and it’s peaceful for a while. Mozzie tickles the piano keys with “St. Louis Blues," an old favorite. The crowd is only a smattering, but business has been picking up steadily since Lackadaisy hired its new gunman. 

“Not bad, McMurray,” his cousin had told him, not too far back, in a tone of pride that almost made him pass out from sheer happiness on the spot. “Not bad at all.”

 

*

 

When morning comes, what Rocky feared would happen, happens; Calvin kisses him, and, fool that he is, he doesn’t pull away. Those big, yellow eyes, his gentle touch, asking so little, and yet, so much, are far too irresistible. And yes, Rocky understands why it’s wrong in oh, so many ways, and certainly, when he asks himself, “you never cared about right or wrong before— why start now?” the answer is, plain as day, “because it’s Freckle.” But the answer to “why am I doing this, why can’t I stop, why can’t I resist him” is the same: “because it’s Freckle.” Sweet, darling, loyal Freckle. His opposite; his disciple; the one who would follow him to the ends of the earth without so much as having to be asked. “Kiss me,” he could say, at any moment, on any day, with total certainty that Calvin would do it. The thought of it makes him itch with desire.

Finally, he gets just enough of a grip on himself to pull away, mostly due to the fact he can no longer breathe. Calvin clings to his lapels, waiting patiently, as he tries to explain why they should stop, why this is wrong and they both know it, but, for the first time in his life, at the worst possible moment, Calvin doesn’t listen. “I love you,” he says, his chin tilted adorably, kitten eyes so deceptively innocent. “I want to be your boyfriend.” 

The words come as more of a shock than anything they’ve done so far. “We can’t,” Rocky protests, back pressed against the wall, but only half of him is trying to talk his way out of it; the other half is perfectly comfortable right here, just like this. “We’re cousins.” 

“So? It’s not like you’re my brother. Anyway, this whole thing was your idea.” 

“Yes, but—” 

“And you love me, too.” 

“Yes,” Rocky says helplessly. “But not— not like _that.”_ Calvin kisses him again as if to say, really? Are you sure? and Rocky takes his point. By the time they break apart a minute later, he’s too dizzy, too happy, to feel anything close to regret. “Your mother would have my hide if she knew.”

Which is Calvin’s cue to say something reassuring, such as “I won’t tell” or “don’t worry” or “she’ll never find out,” but when what actually comes out of his mouth is, “aren’t I worth it?”— like a line straight out of one of those ridiculous, sappy movies Ivy likes to watch (maybe it’s good they broke up; apparently he’s been spending far too much time with her) Rocky can’t help but wonder, aside from mayhem and romance, what other unprecedented, inexplicable talents his mild-mannered cousin is hiding up his sleeves. You only know someone until you don’t, Mitzi had once said. Rocky finds himself agreeing with her.

Calvin begins to purr as he puts his nose into the curve of Rocky’s neck, just beneath his chin, and nips at him. Rocky strokes Calvin’s body, from his stomach and chest down to his hips and rear— every part of him he can get his hands on. Suffice it to say that if Viktor could see what sort of things they proceed to do in his garage, he’d kill them both without asking questions.

 

*

 

The garage becomes the “petting pantry,” at least, as far as Rocky is concerned, and only when he and Calvin are alone. At all other times and within earshot of anyone else (from Viktor to Horatio), it’s just plain old “garage.” Rocky finds that oddly appropriate— the way their dynamic can take a boring, dark, motor-oil-scented room and turn it into something exciting, a secret. And no one ever catches them; no one ever even suspects. Lifelong partners in crime, they were inseperable long before their affair had begun. One would have to be none other than Sherlock Holmes to be able to discern a difference, and even so, Rocky doesn’t feel brazen in thinking the man himself would have a hard time, because for all that he’s foolish, for all that he may be wrong, Rocky is cunning, and he knows how to hide the truth when he has to. He’s been doing it all his life.

Thusly, they enter the honeymoon phase of their relationship. Stolen kisses, sensual whispers, and the short space of time between the witching hour and daybreak amount to everything they care about. Time blurs together, every sleepless night spent, if not on shady activities, then on shady activities of a different sort— that is to say, if not on bootlegging, then on what Rocky sometimes refers to as “how’s your father.” And although Rocky enjoys a blowjob as much as the next fellow, when he’s honest, the kisses are the best part. No one he’s ever kissed in his life can kiss the way Freckle does. And, when he’s really honest, Calvin’s not yet experienced enough to be all that spectacular at blowjobs, anyway. 


	4. Yes

Calvin is initially reluctant, but Rocky pesters him until, worn out (and, admittedly, curious), he gives his consent. They take Old Lizzie to a secluded spot in the woods (a close call in the garage, about a week ago, inspired them to seek a change of location) and undress, and Rocky gets on top. He goes slowly, gently, just like he promised he would, but Calvin still cries. "Stop, stop." 

“Just think of something else.” 

“Stop!”

They separate. Calvin sniffles and wipes his eyes. Watching him, Rocky feels a twinge of guilt. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

After a while, Rocky persuades him to try again. This time, when he cries out, Rocky doesn’t stop. “Just breathe— relax.” Calvin whimpers and pleads, reaches back to push him away, but Rocky is imperturbable until he’s finished. When, afterward, Calvin is cross with him, he simply shrugs. “What do you expect? Look, it’s just like learning to swim— it’s no fun at first, but once you get the hang of it, you’ll like it.”

 

*

 

If Calvin had an ounce willpower to speak of, making Rocky happy wouldn’t be as important to him as his own comfort, but since he doesn’t, he winds up playing the taking-it-up-the-rear game so often he becomes an expert. Rocky just keeps asking, and he just keeps saying yes. Sometimes he feels like that’s the only word he knows, when it comes to Rocky. Those blue eyes, that brilliant smile, and suddenly, he forgets that ‘no’ is even a thing.

Which is why, after they’ve been doing it for a while, every time he winds up with something not-quite-Rocky up there— toys and similar, though not purpose-built, objects— and is left to cry his eyes out while Rocky rolls on the floor, hugging his sides and aching with laughter, he only has himself to blame.


	5. Outlet

“Don’t ever do that again.” 

Calvin is trembling. “I didn’t mean to.” 

Rocky hugs him. “I’m not mad. Just don’t do it again.” He steps back, slides his hands down Calvin’s arms, and takes the gun away before he can protest. He sets it aside, carefully sidestepping the lake of blood. “Come on. We have to get rid of the body.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, don’t worry about it. He never even touched me.” 

“But... your mouth.” 

Rocky touches the wound gingerly, smiling. “This? This is nothing.” As if to show how little it mattered, he casually wipes away the blood with his sleeve (he’s going to have a hell of a time explaining that one to Nina), but Calvin still doesn’t look at him, and he falters. “Listen— I get it. You’re upset. That’s okay.” 

“I almost let him kill you!” 

“And that’s fine! So you were feeling a little pent up— so what? We all need an outlet now and then— and I didn’t die, so, who cares?” He lets the words tumble from his mouth as quickly as he can. “If anything, it’s my fault. I... may have possibly hurt you, maybe, just a little, these past few weeks— I can admit that.”  

Calvin sniffles and looks at him, eyes shiny and wide. “Really?” 

“Sure. Listen, here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna go out tomorrow— a date, just like you wanted. Sound good? Come on— to make up for all the shitty things I did.” He closes the distance between them, kisses his nose, and, although the source of their current distress was a lack of understanding as well as boundaries, he doesn’t feel like he’s overstepping at all as Calvin leans into him, sniffling, comforted. “All right?” 

“All right.” 

 

*

 

Calvin had always wanted to go on a date. Rocky didn’t understand it. “Between work and sex, we see each other all the time. What the heck do we need to go on a date for?” Calvin never pressed the subject, because when Rocky didn’t want to do something, they never did it; contrarily, when he wanted to do something, they always did it, rarely, if ever, discussing it beforehand, whatever it was. But Calvin never complained, and when Rocky finally agreed to take him out, in that creepy alley after his tenth, eleventh, twelfth kill— who kept track? not Calvin, not anymore— he knew better than to hope, but, to his surprise, Rocky delivered; on one warm, sunny afternoon, they went rowing in the park. They took the boat out into the middle of the lake and stopped, drifting, peaceful, like a fallen leaf, talking, laughing, not about anything in particular— movies, books, music— and Rocky didn’t try to kiss him, not even once. And he felt safe; happy. This was the relationship he wanted— the Rocky he wanted. 

Why couldn’t it always be like this?


	6. Crybaby

“It’s quiet.” 

They patrol slowly, side by side, each with a flashlight in his hand. Under the moonless, starless sky, it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to see, otherwise— not that it scarcely matters. The park is abandoned this late, apart from any lingering homeless or drunks— i.e., the reason they’re there, when they’d much rather be elsewhere. But that’s part of the job— doing things you don’t want to do. Part of every job, really. At least this one has its perks. 

“Let’s cut out,” one of them says. “There’s this tomato, works late at the diner. Probably loves a man in uniform.”

“You got a cigarette?”

“No smoking on duty.” 

“You damn hypocrite. Who was just talking about cutting out early?” 

“All right, here.” They stop. One of them digs through his pockets. “Anyways, I thought you kicked the habit,” he mutters. His fellow doesn’t reply. “Damn quiet as the grave out here. Why can’t we cut out, huh? No one will know.” 

“We have a quota. Sure we can find somebody.” He gazes around, flicking the beam of his flashlight here and there. There’s a pond to their left. On the grass near the edge, curled up on his side, is a teenager. The cop nods in his direction as his partner hands him a cigarette. “Look.” 

“Hoo, golly.” 

“Come on.”

There’s a low fence they have to step over to get there. One of them nudges the kid’s side with the tip of his shoe, but he doesn’t react. “Drunk,” the cop mutters, then squats by him. “Hey, you. Get up.” 

The kid lifts his head. His eyes fall on the badge, and he jerks as if electrocuted, staring in horror. Amused, the cop says, “easy, easy. We saw you lying here, thought you might need some help.”

They make him get up, ask if he’s been drinking, but the question is more for show than anything else. His clothes are disheveled and his eyes are bloodshot. “I was crying,” he tells them, or whispers, rather. 

“Can’t hear you.” 

“He was crying,” the other cop supplies. “Whatcha cryin’ about, short stuff?” 

“All right,” the first cop says. “Turn around. Hands behind your back.”

The kid shakes his head. They talk him into it. It’s not hard. He’s reserved, they notice, submissive, almost. “Got a name, sport?” 

“Freckle!”

They turn around. One of them shines a light on the young man coming towards them, who, despite having to shield his eyes, is smiling broadly. “Oh! Good evening, officers.” 

“Rickaby.” The first cop approaches him, fist clenched warningly. “I thought we had an understanding.” 

“Must’ve slipped my mind.” Rocky walks backwards to get away from him, still grinning like an idiot. His eyes flick towards Calvin. “Are those handcuffs? He doesn’t need those, y’know.” 

“Park’s closed. What are you doing here? Who’s the twerp?” 

“My cousin. Look, uhh, I’m pretty sure you can’t make an arrest without just cause, so—” 

“Park’s closed. You’re both trespassing. Plus this one is drunk— plus you’re a previous offender. Turn around, hands behind your back.” 

“Let’s talk about this.” 

They ignore him and lock his wrists together. On the way to the street, Rocky expresses his annoyance with his cousin. “I told you this would happen.” 

“You were being mean to me!” 

“You’re too sensitive.” 

Gibe turns to push, and push turns to shove. The cops separate them seconds before Calvin can blacken Rocky’s eye. Then they’re placed into the back of a squad car, where they fall to fighting again, mostly kicking and head-butting, for lack of free hands. The cops are irritated to have to stop the vehicle more than once to separate them. “Dammit! What are you two, married?”

When, finally, they calm down, the drive goes quiet. Rocky is uncharacteristically mute, biting the inside of his cheek and staring out of the window. Calvin pointedly doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t much care they’re being arrested, at the moment, despite knowing he probably should; all he cares about is that Rocky feels like shit for what he did, and what he’s gotten them into as a result. 

 

*

 

“It’s okay,” he kept saying, “it’s okay. Please, stop.” 

“I want to go home!” 

“Not until you stop crying.” 

“I want to go home!”

Rocky drove them to the park, pulled into a space (or three spaces or whatever, but who cared, the place was empty), shut the engine off, and swiveled around to face the back, where Calvin was stretched out amidst his books and shirts. “You’re acting stupid.” 

“I want to go home!” 

“You’re making a racket. Do you want to get caught?”

He was starting to lose his patience, and for what? His cousin sometimes cried when he was fucked in the ass, sure, but they’d had the night off tonight, and wound up trying something new. Calvin had cried while it was happening, which was not of itself unusual, but he hadn’t stopped when it was over, no matter how Rocky tried to comfort him. He cried even harder when he found it hurt too much to sit, which, to Rocky, was very funny right up until it wasn’t, around the same time he’d started getting really hysterical. There was no bringing him to Nina’s in such a state, and Rocky told him so. To his chagrin, this had only made him cry harder— a feat, until he witnessed it, he wouldn’t have thought possible. 

 _“Please_ shut up! What’s wrong with you?” 

“I told you to stop.”

“You’re being a baby.” 

“It hurts.” 

Rocky got out of the car. Crickets chirped and the night breeze whispered. He sighed, leaned against the door, and waited for his cousin to tire himself out. He fretted that someone might hear them, but told himself it was unlikely. How long could his cousin go on crying, anyway, with no proper reason? He was fine, honestly. That was one of the great things about Freckle— no matter what, he always bounced back. Granted, he’d never fallen to bits quite like this before, but surely... surely he was fine.

 _I told you to stop,_ he’d said. It was true. But that was all part of it. Calvin needed a little push to get out of his comfort zone. There was nothing wrong with that. And he trusted Rocky, just as Rocky trusted him. It wasn’t like (just the thought, Rocky assured himself, was ridiculous) he was doing anything wrong. Not like— not like...

It grew quiet, suddenly. Rocky shook himself out of his thoughts, glanced over his shoulder at the back window. “Freckle? Are you done?” He leaned down, smiling tentatively. “Man, that was some—”

His smile faded and his blood ran cold as he realized the backseat was empty. He straightened in alarm, looking around, but it was too dark to see— he could have gone anywhere. 

“...tantrum.”  

 

*

 

After what feels like forever, they stop. Calvin is tugged out of the car. “Wait,” he hears Rocky say, in a tone he rarely uses, but the door is slammed shut, cutting him off. Calvin is dragged a few paces and pushed to his knees. The ground is damp and gravelly; he realizes they’re in an alley. His brows crease in confusion as his heart beats loudly. Meanwhile, somewhere above him, the officers are speaking.

“Who’s going first?” 

“Let me.” 

Calvin has a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. He tries to get up, but one of them holds him down, gripping his shoulders, making some comment about their tininess (“he could pass for a female”). The other one stands in front of him. “Don’t fight,” he says, “and maybe, just maybe, we’ll let you go. Okay?” 

Calvin shakes his head, tries to turn his face away, but a strong hand cups his chin and forces him back around. He’s face to face with it, and although he knows what he’s supposed to do (he has Rocky to thank for that, and for this, and for, oh, my god, everything) he doesn’t want to. 

“Open your mouth,” the officer says.


	7. Hurt

He scrunches his knees close to his chest and maneuvers his cuffed wrists under his feet. It’s tricky, but once his hands are in front of him, climbing into the front and hot-wiring the engine is a simple matter. Settling himself behind the wheel, he looks through the windshield and sees the cops are still busy with his cousin. He switches the headlamps on. Light floods the alley, blinding them. Calvin meets his gaze, yellow eyes wide, a trail of white come glistening on the edge of his mouth. He’s scared— Rocky can see it in his face, in the rise and fall of his chest, in the way he’s not fighting their grip on him anymore. Don’t worry, he thinks, as if he might be able to hear him, somehow; I’ve got this.

They try to regain control of the situation. “What are you doing? That’s city property!” 

Rocky revs the engine. To his dismay (fiddlesticks), they yank Calvin to his feet and use him as a shield. “Let him go,” Rocky yells, but of course they don’t listen. They order him out of the car. He wishes desperately for some ingenious idea, but is left with no choice, in the end. They have Calvin. They’ll hurt him, even worse than they already have. “Let him go,” he says again, but is ignored, pushed to the ground, and kicked.

“Piece of shit.”

Calvin sobs his name, wretchedly. Helpless to save them, Rocky curls up tightly, raising his hands to protect his head. They take turns beating him. They call him awful things. They threaten to kill him. They ask him why he’s smiling. He spits blood out of his mouth and says Freckle’s name. He’d meant to say something clever, something funny, but it hadn’t turned out that way. One too many blows to the head, he supposed; oh, well. 

“You’re scum, Rickaby,” one of them says, seizing his collar, dragging him halfway up; “you’re worthless. Do you understand?” Rocky nods. The cop shakes him. “Say it.”  

“I’m worthless,” Rocky deadpans. They uncuff, then drop him. He starts to recover but is winded when they push Calvin, stumbling, smack on top of him. “Oof!” 

“Sorry.”

With their arms around each other, Rocky beneath and Calvin on top, hearts pounding in time, they wait, immobile, until the car pulls away and they’re left alone. Then they breathe a sigh; Rocky falls back with his eyes closed, and Calvin lowers his head onto his chest, nuzzling his favorite spot, the curve of his neck. Staring up at the sky, Rocky rubs his quivering back. “It’s okay,” he almost says, but the words get stuck in his throat, and, for the second time that night, he’s uncharacteristically silent.

 

*  

 

Rocky doesn’t take him home. The sun rises and they’re still in the flivver, in the park, lying one on top of the other in the backseat. It’s extremely uncomfortable, in Rocky’s opinion, all cramped and hot and smelling of blood and sweat, but his cousin, for all intents and purposes, is dead to the world, hasn’t moved a muscle in an age, and Rocky would die, just then, before disturbing him— at least, other than to pet him gently, at around maybe six, smoothing down his silky-soft hair, hand coming to rest on the back of his neck, and whisper, “I think we should break up.” 

He can’t decide whether to feel disappointment or relief when Calvin stirs ever so slightly and nods his head yes, a movement so minute it’s almost imperceptible, giving away the fact he hadn’t been asleep at all— just pretending. 


	8. Need

It’s not until they’re only a few blocks away from Nina’s house that Rocky is able to gather his fortitude and summon a smile, muted somewhat due to the circumstances, and not so much because he really feels like smiling (how could he, possibly?), but rather because he has the vague idea that to see it might bring his cousin a bit of comfort, a sense of normalcy, however feeble. He glances sideways at him (seldom watching the road, if he’s honest, even when his gaze is pointed at it)— at his Freckle, quiet as the dead, slumped against the door, face carefully hidden from view, what little of it Rocky can discern barely visible between the upturned collar of his trench coat and the lowered brim of his father’s hat. There’s no way to tell if he’s listening as Rocky goes over their cover story, something ingenious about the car breaking down on the way back from an errand, but Rocky knows that he is. Before letting him go, he makes him repeat it, only to interrupt him halfway through— not intentionally, more incidentally, having been staring at a spot near his mouth where there was some, ahem, evidence left— a small pale smear— to reach over and rub at that spot with his sleeve. “Don’t move.” Calvin twists away. Rocky starts to grab him, to hold him still, but thinks better of it.

“You don’t have to come in tonight,” Rocky says, after a brief silence, “if you don’t want to.” 

“You’ll get hurt.” 

“I can handle one night on my own.” 

“No, you can’t.” Calvin sounds tired. Rather than pity him, Rocky is almost annoyed. He doesn’t need Calvin— well, maybe a little, but not like, _need,_ need. He’s been doing this gig long before Calvin joined. He tries to tell him so, but he doesn’t reply. Rocky settles for the foot-down approach, though he does have to wince, just slightly, at his own tone. 

“You’re staying home, Freckle. I mean it.”

Without looking at him, Freckle nods, then clicks open the door and slides almost clumsily out, his manner reminiscent of a small child’s. Watching him makes Rocky’s conscience ache. “Wait.”

Freckle looks at him. He’d meant to say “I’m sorry,” but what actually comes out of his mouth is “don’t tell your mother,” a phrase which, needless to say, doesn’t have quite the same effect, despite its irrefutable pertinence. He curses himself silently— he’s never been much good with apologies— but Freckle seems neither disappointed nor surprised; he merely nods and turns away, leaving Rocky to slump back in his seat, alone with his thoughts.


	9. Apology

Zib fucks weird. Calvin could go into it, if he was the sort to go into anything, rather than the quiet boy fate thought it would be funny to doom him to be. Whenever he thinks about Zib, he thinks about how much better he was, after one night— just one spontaneous, casual fuck— than Rocky. They don’t have a single thing in common, aside from both having slid their dicks into him at some point, and it’s this vast dissimilarity he finds so intriguing— strictly in terms of fucking, that is. Anything beyond that he could care less about, and obviously there’s nobody on earth quite like Rocky, and he never expected, not even for a moment, that screwing Zib would be the same as screwing him (which, if he’s honest— and why shouldn’t he be?— probably played a major part in his saying yes). It’s just the little things that have him fucked up. That, and the way, so contrary to Rocky’s insatiability, that Dorian Zibowski simply does not care. He hadn’t cared, when he asked Calvin if he wanted to maybe see his apartment after work tonight, whether or not he said yes. He hadn’t pushed him to accept, much less insinuated the world would end if he didn’t, the way Rocky would have. He hadn’t glanced at him once the whole time he was speaking, cigarette burned down to a stub, voice mellow and deep, almost sluggish, affected, obviously. Like he thought Calvin was out of his league, or something. He guesses he could see why. According to Rocky, who’s been deflecting offers from Marigold to take Calvin on as an apprentice (“don’t get any ideas, cuzzo— we’re loyal to Miss Mitzi, you and me”) as well as fostering anywhere from ninety-nine to one hundred percent of the rumors (i.e., lies) about Calvin’s triple-digit body count that have every gangster from Maine to Florida quaking in their boots, he’s somewhat of a legend nowadays. Although he can’t imagine it exactly set the mood, as Zib leaned against the doorway, idly chatting, not avoiding his gaze yet, that Calvin was diligently washing blood from his face, arms, and neck. It had been a messy, albeit productive, night. The shirt he was wearing, once white, now vermillion, was completely fucked. Zib had watched him take it off, then said, 

“That’s never coming out.” Calvin had nodded. “Doesn’t it bother you? Killing people?” Calvin had nodded again. Zib had ashed his cigarette over the toilet. “How’s your love life?” He was referring to their conversation, the one they had over a game of go fish, and one or ten similar conversations they had since then, about sexuality and, specifically, Calvin’s woeful lack of experience thereof. Zib’s advice had helped him. He never talked to anyone else about it. Zib, for whatever reason, was the only one he went to. As if he had a plethora of options. No, Zib had been it. Calvin couldn’t very well talk to Rocky about Rocky, not that they ever did, but, well, they could have. “You seem down. Lately, I mean.” 

“I’m okay.” 

“I was thinking. Maybe you want to come home with me tonight.”

Calvin had turned away from the mirror, face dripping, and looked at him, hadn’t said anything, just looked. Zib had waited as he thought about it. In the end, he’d agreed.

How strange, to have a say in how it all went down, in how he was treated, in what was allowed and what wasn’t. How peculiar, but nice, to say no and have it take the desired effect, with immediacy, no less. To have someone ask him what he wants (heretofore unimaginable) and listen to his answer. And to feel good, while it was happening, so much so, in fact, he later decides that sex, with Zib, hadn’t happened to him, not the way sex with Rocky or sex with the policemen happened to him. Sex with Zib was something that involved both of them, equally. It hadn’t happened to him. 

He almost cried when it was over— is this really what love could be? Not in forever had he surrendered to someone and then not scrambled to get his clothes back on, afterward, and leave as quickly as possible. He and Rocky had a very private affair, the biggest secret they’ve ever shared, the most shameful way in which they’ve ever misbehaved. They almost never did it in a bed. That’s another thing. Zib fucked him in a bed. And then, to fall asleep in it, feeling Zib breathe next to him, listening to the sound— his apartment isn’t even nice, god, no, it’s a fucking shithole. Calvin hates it. But he likes it a little bit, too, because it’s Zib’s, and not only is he welcome there, at any time— Zib had made that clear— but he’s welcome to leave at any time, too. And it’s that freedom, more than anything, that draws the line between Zib and Rocky.

So why, Calvin wonders, awake that golden afternoon, in Zib’s shithole apartment, on his creaky, garbage mattress, forehead resting against his back as he lies dead to the world, the place reeking of alcohol and cigarette smoke and... something else— why, he wonders, and comes up with no answer, despite not getting a wink of sleep that day, for reasons not unpleasant, not in the beginning, at least— why, he wonders, hating himself, wishing it wasn’t true, but powerless to change it— why, he wonders, hating himself— hating himself— hating himself— oh god, oh god, he hates himself— all the things he’s done, the things people have done to him, the things he let them do, but he can’t cry, not now, not because he doesn’t feel like it, but simply because he has no tears left anymore— why, he’s always wanted to know, ever since he was four, but to his endless, utter torment could never figure out and probably never will ( _and it’s going to kill you someday,_ says a voice in his head, as he stews in the blissful afterglow of amazing daytime sex and the roiling thunderstorm of his own consciousness)— why does he love Rocky more than anything? The list of drastic measures he would take before letting him down, before witnessing his beautiful face fall and letting it be his fault, is endless. He would kill for him, has killed for him, and recently, and would, and will, do it again, and again, and again... just as soon as he apologizes. Closing his eyes, he practices. I’m sorry I cried. I’m sorry I ran away. I’m sorry I made you angry. Can we get back together? Please? I’ll do anything. 

Rocky will understand. He’ll understand that, when Calvin says that— “I’ll do anything”— he means it. And he’ll take him back, but not before smiling, and laughing, and hugging and kissing him, and saying, “see? I knew you’d come around.” And then kissing him again, that crescent-moon smile no one else could ever hope to replicate (Zib, for all that’s great about him, Calvin could never love for that reason amid countless others) making Calvin’s heart flutter, erasing from his mind like chalk the reason why they’d ever broken up to begin with. “You silly-billy boy.”


	10. Old Sport

He wakes up hungover, in a stranger’s house, in a stranger’s bed. The room tilts nauseatingly when he sits up, and, shutting his eyes against the queasiness, he paws blindly for his clothes. Later he’ll realize that half of what he puts on isn’t even his. Rubbing his face, he tries to remember what happened last night, how he’d gotten there, but, apart from snatches, his memory is blank. The stranger, whom he does not recognize in the least, is fast asleep, and Calvin leaves without waking him.

At Little Daisy, Rocky is surprised to see him. “Back so soon? You oughta get some rest.” Calvin doesn’t say anything, but the look he gives him, wide-open and guilty, tells him everything. “You did it again.” Calvin hangs his head, face burning in shame. Rocky falters, then tries to smile reassuringly. “Look, it’s no big deal. Everyone’s had a one-night stand. Or... ten.”

Calvin’s eyes well up. “Why can’t we get back together?”

“Because, Freckle. Now go on home. And switch back to chocolate milk.”

“I tried, but I can’t.” Calvin wipes his eyes, sniffling. Rocky watches in mixed exasperation and fascination.

“You can’t possibly still be stuck on me.”

“I just want things to go back to the way they used to be.”

“Let’s get you to the car. Here— help me up.”

Calvin does, grasping his hand. Rocky, he knows, in spite of his smile, is not doing well. Someone had stuck a knife in his leg a little while back, and, due to his negligence, it’d gotten infected. He should be out of commission, and undoubtedly would have been, if it wasn’t for the fact that Mitzi still doesn’t know about it, somehow. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I’m too wired.”

They go out front. Rocky shuts his cousin into the vehicle and leans against the door, looking at him. “It’s no fun seeing you like this, y’know. Makes me think of my old man.”

“I’m sorry.” 

And he is, sort of. The correlation between Rocky’s father’s and his own— though recent and not a fraction as serious— drinking problem had ocurred to him. He knew Rocky wouldn’t like it. But, he reasoned, if he really didn’t like it, he’d do something about it, wouldn’t he? All he had to do to get him to stop was take him back, be his boyfriend again, but— and Calvin agonizes over why until booze makes it impossible— for whatever reason, he simply won’t.

It’s been so difficult since they split. He supposes the one night stands were meant to help, but doesn’t enjoy them, though neither does he dislike them. Mostly, he just can’t remember them— except for the first one, that is, the one with Zib. He could’ve had Zib again. Zib had wanted to, certainly, but Calvin had balked, flushing red, staring at his shoes. Zib had asked him why, not pressuring, more stating a case, pointing out and underlining the fact that it didn’t, by any means, have to be anything serious— “I mean, jeez, kid, it’s sex, not marriage—” but, to Calvin, though once had been fun, twice was far too close to the start of something (not a commitment, exactly, but _something_ ) than he was willing to fuck with. He’d shaken his head, eyes down, blushing profusely, until Zib had given up, with a shrug, and gone away, though not before letting him know the offer was open if he ever changed his mind.

Then there were the others, the ones he can’t remember, because he keeps getting wasted. Again, not something he enjoys, and certainly not his idea— at least, not in the beginning. He asked Viktor later, though doing so had taken all the courage he possessed. It turned out someone had bought the first drink for him, and he turned out to be more of a featherweight than anyone possibly could have suspected. “One drink, and nothing. Asleep like dog.” Calvin had turned cherry colored and put his head in his hands, unheeding of Viktor’s presence, of the derisive gaze he was no doubt giving him. It had come as a surprise to feel his hand on his shoulder. “Look at me.” Calvin had looked up. “No more drink.” Calvin had nodded, and he’d meant it, or at least, he’d wanted to, at the time, but, apparently— two  weeks, nine strangers, and thirty shots later— he hadn’t, really.

To be fair, it had been a very _stressful_  two weeks. At the beginning, he and Rocky had broken up. After his fling with Zib, but before today, Calvin had burst into the speakeasy, panicking. Rocky had looked at him, then at the gun in his hand, which Calvin had, horrifyingly, forgotten about, and was still warm. “Is everything okay?” he’d asked, though they both knew the answer. Then, “what’s wrong?” though what he really meant (and again, they both knew it) was, “what did you do?” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Calvin had helplessly repeated, “I didn’t mean to.”

That was a lie. The truth Rocky would find out after driving into the middle of nowhere with a shovel and two bodies stuffed in the trunk. They stood over the fresh, shallow, occupied double grave, and Calvin, dirt-covered, sweaty, and panting, was finally able to stop trembling long enough for Rocky to prise answers out of him, answers, it turned out, as simple as they were complicated. Rocky tilted his head, gesturing to the corpse on the left. “Okay, yeah, that was one of them, and honestly, thank god. But the other one, he’s a squirt— musta been around your age. Why’d you kill him?” 

“He was going to kill me.” 

“What about the other pig from that night? The fat one?” Calvin shook his head. “Chickened out, huh?” Calvin nodded. 

“I didn’t even look for him.” 

“All the better. You don’t kill cops, cuz.” 

“I know, but—” 

“We’re dead if anyone finds out. Do you understand? No one can know— not even Miss Pepper.” 

“I won’t tell.” 

“Swear.”

Calvin swore. They stood in silence, gazing into the pit with the two soon-to-be-skeletons. Then Rocky sighed. “You can’t lose your grip, cousin. We have a good thing going. And I need you.” 

A long silence lapsed before Calvin worked up the courage to say, “you said I wouldn’t have to kill anyone else.” 

“In theory, I said.” 

“I keep getting these nightmares.” 

“Have a drink. Settle your nerves. And if I hear you killed another cop— well, I better not hear it, let’s leave it at that, okay? Okay? Hey— look at me.” They embraced then, suddenly, tightly, and Rocky said, “it’s going to be okay.” Calvin believed him. But, just as quickly as it started, the embrace was over, and Rocky turned away. “Shake a leg. I want to get out of here.”

Calvin obeyed. The drive home, just the two of them, alone in the car (“struggle-buggy”), reminiscent of happier times, not so long ago, may have elicited different feelings from him if not for the harrowing sense he’d just fucked up, big-time, corroborated by Rocky’s uneasy silence. “Honestly,” is one of the first things he says, quietly, more to himself than anything, “I never know what nutty thing you’re gonna do next.”  

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay. You were right, in a sense. Authority that abuses its power should be overthrown at all costs. And the, ah, the kid, well, that was a simple mistake. We all make mistakes. Who knows? He was probably just as corrupt as they were.” 

“What if he wasn’t?” 

“What are the odds? Ninety percent of St. Louis cops are dirty. Can’t trust any of ‘em, not a one. You take that under advisement, you hear me?” 

“Okay.” 

“And don’t go feeling guilty. Ten to one, the kid was a scumbag like the others, and it’s not your job to worry about it, anyway. Probably best if you just don’t think about it at all. So—” and here he’d glanced at him, his expression, Calvin thought, wavering slightly— “promise me you won’t think about it.” 

“I won’t.”

And he didn’t, for the most part. In the present, Rocky steps away from the car, giving him a smile. “See you tonight. And cheer up, old sport. Things are looking up. You hear me?”

Calvin nodded to show that he did.


	11. Partner

Rocky made friends with a guy named Saul who had a similar backstory to his— that is, being displaced from home at a relatively young age. They met while train-hopping westward. It was the two of them and a few others, all of whom fled when the locomotive was stopped and the bulls came on board (“bulls,” Saul scoffed, at some point, during the short time they knew each other, “more like pigs, am I right?”).

Rocky had never hopped a train before. The others had warned him, when they taught him how, that there was about a fifty-fifty chance the cops would show and they’d have to make a break for it. Really, he could have gotten away. He’d had his warning. But one of the kids who got left behind, who he wouldn’t have even noticed if he hadn’t, for god knows what reason, looked back— kind of littleish, wide-eyed, maybe ten or eleven— reminded him of someone. So he’d stopped and gone back and helped him out, but before he knew it he’d taken a truncheon to the back of the head that put him, briefly, facefirst on the floor, before they pulled him up and had him, for a longer period, on his knees. When they finally let him go, he ran before they could change their minds and didn’t slow down until he reached the road. To his surprise, someone was waiting for him there— not the kid he’d saved, but one of the bigger ones, red-haired, whose name, if Rocky recollected, was Saul.

“Dirt,” said Saul. 

“What?” 

“Put some dirt in your mouth. It’ll get rid of the taste.” 

“What are you still doing here?” 

“Waiting for you.”

As they walked, Saul told Rocky his story. Originally from California, having traveled East, he was on his way back home and had been freight-hopping for about a year or more. He was well acquainted with the bulls, citing multiple instances of abuse so awful Rocky actually started to feel lucky. Then, “What about you?” he asked. “Where are you from?” 

“Missouri.” 

“Whereabouts?” 

“St. Charles.” 

“Folks dead?” 

“Yeah,” Rocky lied, because that seemed easiest. “What about you?” 

“Same.” Saul put an arm out and stopped him. By that point it was growing dark, and the crickets were beginning to sing. “Hey, you wanna be friends? I feel like we got a lot in common. We can be partners, like the Lone Ranger and Tonto.”

“I dunno,” Rocky said. “I already have a partner.”

“Oh, yeah? Where is he?” 

Rocky says nothing.

“Look, all I’m saying is it’s good to have someone watching your back. Like, maybe, next time, instead of you playing the hero all by yourself, we can do it together.” Saul stuck his hand out. “What do you say?” 

“Okay, yeah. Why not?” Rocky took his hand and they shook. It was a gesture that would have been solemn if not for the smiles they wore. “Partner.”


End file.
